Tangled Affairs
by RadioShack84
Summary: Unforeseen and deadly consequences abound following the dissolution of the latest person of interest's complex romantic arrangement. Gen. Reese whump. Mainly Reese, Finch, Fusco.


A/N #1: This story assumes that Number Crunch and all subsequent canon occurs after January 1.

A/N #2: I briefly borrowed a few characters from A Gifted Man for this. You need not have seen that show to understand the story.

Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest or A Gifted Man. Written for enjoyment, not money.

* * *

"What did you say this guy does for a living?" Reese asked as he made his way through the calf-deep snow that lay in the forested area of the park where he was tracking their latest number's owner.

"He fries chicken at the Poultry Geist Deli on 59th, as you already know," Finch said, a hint of annoyance in his voice.

"I do," Reese agreed, "but I wanted to hear you say 'Poultry Geist' again." At Finch's audible sigh he added more seriously, "That, and talking keeps my lips from freezing solid."

"Well the sooner you can tell me why someone wants Ralph Higgins dead, the sooner you can come in from the cold, Mr. Reese. So to speak."

"I can tell you he's definitely single again."

"How is that?"

"It's New Year's Eve, Finch, and the man's going ice fishing."

"All right, but how does that help us?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out." Reese grabbed onto a tree for balance as he waded through a particularly deep patch of snow, and was thankful he'd invested in a good pair of winter boots. Out on the ice, Higgins stopped and began laying out his gear. Reese followed suit, hunkering down behind a skinny spruce tree and retrieving his camera from his bag. Training the telephoto lens on Higgins, he snapped a few shots, then traded the camera for a pair of binoculars. "How goes the battle with Microsoft?" Reese asked, keeping his voice low even though there was little chance he could be overheard at this distance, taking into account the wind.

"There's a reason I prefer Linux."

"Be that as it may, the price was unbeatable."

"You didn't _pay_ anything for this."

"Precisely."

"Linux is open-source and free of charge also, you realize."

"If you don't like your gift, Finch, just say so." Reese grinned as he heard more typing on the other end of the line, followed by determined grumbling and the telltale beeping caused by the virus on Finch's new laptop.

"Tell me, since it was you who insisted on this gift exchange in the first place, what do you think of your gift, Mr. Reese?"

John glanced down at the weathervane partially sticking out of the crumpled wrapping paper inside his bag, and then back to where Higgins had started drilling a hole in the ice. "Interesting choice, considering I have nowhere to put it and there are easier ways of forecasting weather. You never struck me as the re-gifting type, Harold."

"I could say the same."

"I didn't exactly receive your laptop as a gift," Reese said dryly, touching his bruised temple where said device had made contact courtesy of Ralph Higgins' brother, Dave.

"Spare me the details, please."

"Suit yourself. Hey, Finch?"

"What is it, Mr. Reese?"

"Looks like Dave might have betrayed Ralph after all. I gotta go, enjoy your laptop."

The casual observer might not have shared in Reese's urgency...after all, a man ice fishing in a park in winter was commonplace. Even the marker tied to the tree nearest Ralph's position wouldn't have been great cause for concern. The city used such markers for various purposes. While Reese wasn't sure what a red marker meant, he knew with relative certainty the meaning of the red and black checkered marker he'd just spotted through his binoculars. It was made of the same bloody material as a shirt belonging to one Joe Michaels, recently deceased.

As he skirted the perimeter of the lake, Reese scoured the wooded area near the marker for any signs of life. The fishing hole was in a fairly secluded portion of the park, but someone had put that marker here today, someone who had known that Ralph Higgins would show up. Reese had little doubt that that person was Dave. The question was, who was Dave trying to tip off? One of the girlfriends? Clara? Gregory, Tiffany's "boy friend, with a space"?

Reese again massaged his temples. If getting hit by a flying computer hadn't guaranteed him a headache, Ralph Higgins' social practices certainly did the job. What he and his brother were involved in could hardly be called a love triangle. It was more like a love hexagon, plus a few extra plus-ones. Reese had made every attempt to know as few details as possible about the arrangement, but it seemed that all permutations of couples in the group had at least been experimented with over a span of years, and Ralph had grown weary of the game. Last week he'd broken up with Tiffany for the third time in six months and now had his eyes set on someone outside the group named Jenna. Dave had caught wind of it and told Joe, after which Joe wound up dead, and it looked as though whoever was responsible was now coming after Ralph. Reese wished he could have questioned Dave directly, but when he'd attempted it a few hours after Joe's death, the elder Higgins had winged the laptop at him and run. He hadn't gotten a second chance either, because Dave had dropped off the grid just after giving his statement to the police.

Sighing, Reese turned his attention back to his surveillance, wondering not for the first time why the machine had named Ralph Higgins' number alone, and not called up Joe's in time to save him, as Finch had said it would. A flash of movement through the trees across the lake stalled further ruminations on the matter, though. The motion had been only a few yards from the tree marker, there and gone. He froze, lowering his bag to the ground, eyes searching. It had been a person, not an animal, he was sure of it. Animals had a certain grace lacked by most humans sneaking through a forest. Animals also roamed less predictably. Reese continued to track the direction of the brief motion as he checked his weapon, and was on the move before the man in the ski mask emerged into the open, about twenty yards behind an unsuspecting Ralph.

Reese stepped up his pace to a run and skirted closer to the edge of the trees, trusting the long shadows of late afternoon to conceal his progress. He couldn't risk fully revealing his position yet. At this distance, he had no way of telling whether the masked man had a gun or how he would react to another's presence. Currently, he seemed satisfied with a slow, almost leisurely approach.

As Reese drew closer, coming up on Ralph's two o'clock, he took a moment to study the ice. The temperature had been below freezing for the past week or so, but the city had been in a strange weather pattern of late and the ice would be the weaker for re-freezing. A few dark spots also intruded among the solid, blue-tinted ice, suggesting localized thinning. The time for discretion had passed though. Reese was close enough now to see the masked man's hands, one of which held a bottle of whiskey, the other a knife. A quick study of distance discouraged Reese from calling out to Ralph. If his voice startled Higgins' assailant into action, Ralph could wind up dead before he was ever able to reach them. Instead, Reese continued following the trees for a few more yards before cutting abruptly onto the ice, tracing the angle of the largest shadow he could find to cover himself for as long as possible.

What followed was a complex choreography, but not one that would have won anyone an ice dancing trophy. Ski Mask had closed within striking distance of Ralph, but didn't go at him with the knife as Reese had expected. Instead, he drew back his arm and swung the whiskey bottle at Ralph's head. Reese attempted to slow his own pace, but the ice made that difficult and so at the last second he planted his feet wide and slid, grabbing Ski Mask's arm mid-swing. Reese's momentum spun them both around, and while trying to wrench his arm free of Reese's grasp, the other man lost his footing, going down hard and sweeping Reese's legs from under him in the process. They landed in a heap, and Reese rolled too late to entirely avoid the man's second swing of the whiskey bottle. He did manage to duck, however, and pain exploded through his shoulder rather than his head-where the blow had originally been aimed. The bottle also exploded on contact, showering him with shards of glass and the remnants of the alcohol.

Concussion averted for the time being, the impact with his shoulder was still sufficient to momentarily stun, and Reese was only semi-aware of Ski Mask struggling to his feet. The glint of a knife out of the corner of his eye was more than enough to bring him around, however, and he made it to his knees, gun in hand, just before Ski Mask struck from the side. Luckily, the man's footing on the slick surface was less-than-sure and his blade thrust was equally off-balance. Reese threw an arm up to block and hissed as the knife glanced off his already-bruised shoulder and slashed partway across his back, slicing through the material of his jacket and shirt and drawing blood. Reese grabbed Ski Mask's wrist and twisted until both knife and man fell to the ice.

Ski Mask grunted in pain and lunged for Reese's gun. "I don't think so," Reese huffed, and promptly clocked him in the face with the barrel. The man howled, and grabbed at his nose with one hand, swinging blindly with the other. It was then that Reese caught a strong whiff of familiar aftershave and things started to make sense. "You've been misbehaving, Gregory."

"Yeah? Who the hell are you, my mother?"

A loud cracking sound coinciding with Ralph's frightened yell preempted any reply. Reese looked up in time to see Ralph-who had apparently been too shocked by their sudden presence to run-disappear with a splash through a gaping hole that had opened in the ice just a few feet away. Several cracks extended outward from the hole, reaching toward them like claws.

Next to Reese, Gregory was looking on in a mixture of horror and satisfaction. He'd pulled off his mask and had it pressed to his bleeding nose, even as he scrambled to stand up. "Not smart, Gregory," Reese said tensely while trying to gauge the safest path to reach Ralph. Gregory kept scrambling. Reese sighed and clocked him again, this time knocking him out cold. "Like I said, not smart." He holstered his weapon, collected Gregory's knife, and then got to his knees and carefully hauled Gregory a good ten feet away from the hole.

Circling around to the opposite side, where the ice would be sturdier, he dropped back down and belly-crawled the last six or so feet. Interspersed with splashing, he could hear Ralph's hoarse voice yelling for help, and occasionally an arm would appear over the lip of the ice, then slip back down again. "Ralph, take it easy," Reese called as he reached the edge of the ice, "I'm going to get you out." The hole was about four feet wide and had apparently grown from the original space Higgins had drilled to fish from, as some of his gear was in the water too. "Ralph, listen to me, I'm going to pull you out of there but I need you to stop moving around so much."

"Help me!" Ralph screamed, giving no sign he'd heard Reese's instructions. "Help me now!"

Reese turned his head, searching for something he could anchor to. He didn't have a lot of experience with cold-water rescues, but knew that a panicked victim could pose great danger to the rescuer if handled improperly. That thought in mind, his search whirred into overdrive when out of nowhere Ralph's ice cold arm clamped around his own and pulled.

Ralph was definitely in a panic. A lucky grab had found purchase on something solid that wasn't just ice, and he wasn't letting go. He was going to either use that object to pull himself to safety or, failing that, pull the object in after him. Reese knew this and, being the object in question, didn't desire the latter outcome. With his free arm, he stabbed Gregory's knife into the frozen lake surface, even as Ralph's other arm looped around the back of his neck and drove his face into the ice. Hard. He saw stars, tasted blood, and reflexively let go of the knife to try and disengage Ralph. True to his prediction, though, Ralph wouldn't be giving up this fight. He released Reese's arm, only to use the rip in the back of Reese's jacket as a handhold.

Reese cringed when Ralph's icy knuckles grated painfully against the knife wound on his back. Ralph was using him as a ladder, climbing him out of the hole. Higgins' next reach caught hold of his belt, and that's when it all went to hell. Reese started sliding forward, fast. This was why panicked victims were dangerous for rescuers. They didn't think things through. They didn't understand that their own weight would eventually nullify the anchoring effect of an unanchored person's weight.

Reese's face suddenly stopped scraping the ice and he managed to gulp half a lungful of air before Ralph's body forced his head and shoulders into the brutally-frigid, fall-in-and-you're-dead-within-minutes, water. Reese fought its cold grip for control of his brain and the rest of his body. His feet scrambled against the ice, in search of an object he hoped he hadn't imagined as he'd studied the fishing gear that hadn't fallen into the water. He was in nearly to his waist, a million ice-water knives skewering his torso, when his shin brushed against it: a fishing pole holder screwed into the ice. It wasn't much, but it might be enough...

He struggled against Ralph for all he was worth, trying to turn his body enough to wrap his ankles around the metal holder. Ralph was grasping clumsily at his thigh now, knee digging into exactly the wrong place on his back, sending pain coursing through Reese that was actually bad enough to trump the ice daggers, but he couldn't focus on that now.

Submerged to his hips and already losing feeling in his hands, Reese finally caught the pole holder with his ankles and stopped sliding forward. But then something strange happened. Ralph stopped climbing short of solid ground, his weight shifted to the side, and then disappeared altogether.

Reese registered that something had just gone terribly wrong, but even if he would have been able to see Gregory approach their position moments ago, kick Ralph in the face and then shove him back into the water, it was doubtful he'd have been physically able to pull himself to safety before Gregory kicked his feet free of the pole holder, effectively completing his delayed dive into the lake. He stayed under for nearly half a minute, partially because it took him that long to get his bearings and partially because he was shivering so hard that he couldn't make his limbs obey his brain. When he did surface, it was to the sight of Gregory taunting Ralph a few feet away. Ralph would try to grab hold of the ice, and Gregory would viciously kick his hand away.

Anger staved off just a fraction of the cold and Reese fought his survival instinct that screamed at him to get out of the water. He forced himself to be calm, patient, to focus and find a way out that wouldn't get he or Ralph killed. Gregory's knife was where he had left it, buried to the hilt in the ice and within reach if he moved a foot or two to his left. Gregory was otherwise occupied, but Reese wasn't naive enough to count the man out as a threat. He was injured and flirting with hypothermia. If he went for the knife now, he knew that Gregory would be on him long before he could pull himself out and he wouldn't get another shot.

_Shot?_ Reese reached for his holster, felt its protrusion at his hip, but not much else. Treading water had kept the blood flowing in his legs, not so much in his arms. With his wrist, he was able to tell that his gun was in fact in the holster, but his fingers were completely numb. Any attempt to grab the weapon would see it lost to the lake, and even if he somehow managed to hold on to it, he'd never be able to keep steady enough to fire. Bad plan.

Another violent shiver wracked his body, and his legs momentarily lost their rhythm. It took a mouthful of water to register that he was sinking. Reese brought his focus back to treading and with an effort got his legs moving again. His muscles were already growing stiff and sluggish and he'd been in the water, what, five minutes? That had to put Ralph close to ten. He looked over and saw that Higgins was no longer fighting to get out of the water, just making the minimum motions necessary to keep his head up. That was a bad sign, but also the answer Reese was looking for.

He watched Gregory watching Ralph, and noticed that Gregory had ceased his taunting of Higgins. Gregory must have noticed the change in Ralph's behavior too and, like Reese, was now simply biding his time. All they had to do was wait.

In the intervening minutes, Reese occupied himself by envisioning several creative ends for Gregory while carefully matching his own motions to Ralph's: slowing down, becoming less coordinated. It didn't take long. With a final flail of his arm, Ralph went under and the clock started ticking. Reese observed Gregory through half-closed eyelids as Gregory watched Ralph sink beneath the surface. Reese had expected Gregory to wait and make sure that Ralph didn't surface, but the length of time he waited with a cold smirk on his face made Reese both question his sanity and think up a couple more convenient ways of making him disappear.

Finally, Gregory straightened and set his sights on Reese. Also expected. Reese played his part according to plan. He tread water awkwardly due to fatigue and his banged-up shoulder, but held out a bit longer than Ralph, long enough to make a few half-hearted attempts to grab Gregory's ankles. For his bother he got his numb fingers stomped on (and heard one of them snap). He cursed Gregory in a panting whisper, told him he wouldn't get away with this. Then he faked passing out and let himself sink, betting his and Ralph's lives as he did so on the assumption that Gregory wasn't crazy, paranoid, or observant enough in the descending darkness to see the knife handle sticking out of the ice a few feet away.

* * *

The lake wasn't large, wasn't more than fifteen feet at its deepest point, but finding a man in pitch black water, even when one knew where to look, was a tall order. Reese's lungs were screaming for oxygen, and every other fiber of his being for warmth, by the time he grabbed onto Ralph and started for the surface. It was a slow, careful ascent. Ralph was dead weight, and despite his starved lungs, Reese had no margin for error. The water was too cold. He knew he didn't have strength for another dive, so if he dropped Ralph, that was that.

It seemed like hours before an area of slightly lighter black appeared in the blackness above. He aimed for the center of it and tried not to be too loud about gasping for air when he lifted his face from the water, in case of a paranoid Gregory lingering on the ice. A cautious and extremely fast surveillance proved that not to be the case, and Reese hauled Ralph up until his head was above water. As he propelled them over to the edge of the hole Reese noted that he could barely feel his limbs, and a wan smile was all he could muster on seeing the shape of the knife handle where he'd left it, but inside he was grinning stupidly in relief.

Now, how was he supposed to grab onto it?

He couldn't hang onto Ralph with one numb arm, and Higgins was unconscious. If he let go, the man would sink. If he held onto him with his legs and stopped treading, they would both sink. Reese looked from the knife to Ralph and back again, recalling the precise way in which he'd gotten into this predicament in the first place. He turned Ralph 180 degrees, pinning Higgins to the edge of the hole with his body as he lunged for the knife handle. Five failed attempts and two very chafed wrists later (his hands were entirely incapable of grasping anything, and he had to cross his arms around the hilt), Reese finally managed to pull himself up and dragged Higgins the rest of the way onto the ice with his legs. His exhausted body wanted nothing more than to sprawl in a heap beside Ralph, but he knew it wasn't an option. With this wind they'd both die of exposure long before the ball dropped in Times Square, not to mention the little problem of unstable ice that could give way at any second and plunge them back into the lake with much the same outcome.

Reese got to his hands and knees behind Higgins and started pushing him away from the hole and toward the shore, pausing only long enough to loop Higgins' gear bag over his shoulder and check that Ralph was still alive and breathing. Miraculously, he was both. Reese thought he'd heard Ralph choke up some water while he'd been wrestling for a hold on the knife handle, but even breathing, Higgins was by no means out of danger. Neither was Reese. Nevertheless, he moved methodically, sliding Ralph ahead of him, using the lack of feeling in his extremities to distance himself from the cold, the fatigue. To keep his mind alert and to avoid guiding them across another thin spot, he studied the ice for inconsistencies as they went, though he had to admit the effort was hardly realistic without a flashlight.

An indeterminate amount of time later, Reese found that he couldn't slide Ralph any further. He looked up and blinked, staring at a snow bank and a spruce tree for several seconds without comprehension. It soon dawned that he'd made it to the shore, but that accomplishment presented a whole new set of challenges. Ralph was in bad shape, severely hypothermic, and Reese would wager that he wasn't far behind himself. They both needed to get warm. Now.

On his own, Reese figured he might be able to make it to his car, but there was no way he'd be able to drag Ralph that far. Hell, as badly as he was shaking, he'd do well to drag him off the ice. With no time to waste, Reese sat down on the bank, looped his arms under Higgins' and proceeded to test that theory. He dug his heels into the snow for traction, and scooted up the bank and behind a large pine tree with his human burden before he collapsed next to Ralph, panting and shaking uncontrollably. The lump digging into his side reminded him that he had Ralph's bag, though, and it eventually goaded him into sitting up again. His fingers wouldn't grasp the zipper, so he used his teeth to open the bag and dumped the contents on the ground.

A flashlight tumbled out first, and he took the twenty fumbling seconds necessary to switch it on in order to survey the rest of the items. A can of peanuts, two screwdrivers, a hooded sweatshirt, a windbreaker, and an archaic cell phone rewarded his effort. Reese would've grinned again if he'd had the energy. He set to work stripping off Ralph's drenched coat and replacing it with the windbreaker - another task that took far longer than it should have. Reese unzipped the sweatshirt and covered Ralph's legs with it before lurching back to the cell phone.

He had to use his knees to hold the phone steady on the ground as he pressed the power button. At least, he hoped he'd pressed it. He couldn't tell for sure until the screen lit up, casting an eerie green glow on his surroundings. Reese grimaced, getting his first look at the unnatural angle of his right ring finger and pinky in the weak light. That was going to hurt later, but for now he felt nothing and took advantage to dial 911, confirming the digits on the screen before hitting send.

"911, emergency response," a man's voice answered.

Reese leaned in close to the phone. "I n-need h-h-help, I've fall...fallen in t-t-the wat-water," he managed through chattering teeth.

"What is your location, sir?"

"The w-west end of the l-l-lake at Preston P-Park."

"Are you still in the water, sir? Are you injured?"

"N-no, g-g-got out, but my friend is uncon-unconscious."

The operator continued to ply him with questions for what felt like hours. Had his friend fallen in too? How long had they been in the water? Did they have any dry clothing or cover from the wind? Then came the instructions, which were few considering the situation. Essentially, huddle together to conserve heat and stay awake until help arrived. It wasn't anything Reese didn't already know and he'd wanted to tell the man as much, but the fact was he was finding it a bit difficult to follow that last instruction himself. The racket of his teeth incessantly clacking together made sleeping inconvenient though, and he made use of the noise and the occasional check-ins from the operator to stay alert.

When the man on the phone announced that the EMTs were two minutes out, Reese got to his knees, put the cell phone on Ralph's chest, and strangled a nearby tree trunk in order to push to his feet. His legs were like rubber and barely held his weight as he staggered away. He could hear sirens in the distance - the rescue team would have no trouble finding Ralph. Apparently, Higgins' phone was actually new enough to have a GPS chip, which the operator assured him they'd already locked onto. It was time for Reese to arrange a rescue of his own.

He stumbled through the snowy park, back toward where he'd left his gear, and wondered if he'd be able to find it in the dark. He also wondered what had become of Gregory. What if the man returned for Ralph? Reese stopped. Maybe he shouldn't have left Higgins alone.

No, the paramedics were nearly there. He'd done all he could for Ralph and now he had to help himself. Right?

The further his progress, the more his thoughts became jumbled and the slower his steps grew. What if Gregory was out there right now, watching him, just waiting for the right moment to strike? Reese shook his head. _Gregory's not here. Snap out of it, _he ordered himself. He also reminded himself that shaking his head was a bad idea. He was dizzy and it was getting more and more difficult to see straight-he'd avoided Gregory's swinging whiskey bottle earlier, but maybe his head had hit the ice harder than he'd thought.

Up ahead, he heard crunching footsteps that couldn't be from the paramedics. They'd come from the opposite direction. The crunching grew closer and he made out a shadowy figure, approaching slowly. The figure didn't seem tall enough to be Gregory, but caution sent Reese staggering for cover anyway. He thought he heard a sigh of exasperation escape the shadow-man.

Reese poked his head out from behind the tree that was literally holding him upright, and squinted into the spinning darkness. The shadow was still walking toward him...no, _limping_ toward him. Frowning, Reese stepped back onto the path, and made the mistake of letting go of the tree. His legs promptly gave way beneath him, and he'd have ended up with a face full of snow had the shadow not grabbed him and slowed his descent. Hands lowered him to his knees and held onto his trembling shoulders, keeping him partially upright.

"Mr. Reese!"

The intensity and concern of the familiar voice caused Reese to jolt in surprise, and the sudden motion set the world spinning off its axis again. A groan escaped before he managed to find his voice, "No need to sh-shout, Finch, I'm r-r-right here."

"'Right here' is less than ideal in your condition. Can you walk?"

Trust Finch not to mince words. Reese decided not to either. "M-maybe?"

Before he had time to ponder the subject further, Finch had pulled his arm across his shoulders and was straining to lift him to his feet. Reese did what he could to help and soon found himself as close to upright as he was likely to get, leaning heavily on Finch. Unfortunately, it was only a moment before everything tilted again and he completely lost track of which way was up. Reese felt himself start to fall, but Finch's arm wrapped firmly around his waist, steadying him.

"Easy, John. I've got you." Finch's soft-spoken words barely registered, but Reese managed to convince his numb legs to follow where he was guided, which turned out to be the passenger seat of a black sedan parked nearby. The biting wind finally stopped with the closing of the car door, then howled again briefly from the opposite side when Finch got in. The car started, and a blast of heat-honest-to-goodness _warmth_-hit Reese. As wonderful as it felt, though, it did little to mitigate the bone-deep, aching chill and exhaustion that had consumed his body and he couldn't find the strength to move at all.

Finch strapped him in and started driving, talked to him, called him by his first name when 'Mr. Reese' garnered no response. Eventually, he managed to turn his head toward Finch, even got his eyes open, but there were two Harolds looking back at him, cursing in tandem and then yelling at someone named Rita on the phone, and it was all too much. Reese finally let the darkness take him.

* * *

"That is not acceptable!"

"Normally I would agree with you, Mr. Tern, but as you've described it to me, your friend's condition is serious and you're closer to the clinic than the hospital. Get him there as quickly as possible and let Dr. Holt examine him. I'll alert Michael that you're coming and I can send an ambulance over as soon as your friend is stabilized, sooner if need be. That's the best I can offer you."

Finch let out a resigned sigh. "All right. Thank you, Rita." He hung up and yanked the steering wheel to the left, speeding down a side street. Several blocks later, he braked to a halt in front of a shabby-looking building on an even shabbier street. Never one to judge a book by its cover though, Finch killed the engine and checked that John was still breathing before hurrying up to the entrance of Clinica Sanando. It was late and the place looked deserted, but the lights were still on inside and the door was unlocked. Finch stood in the empty waiting area for several long seconds and was about to go searching for signs of life when a young, dark-haired man in a wrinkled shirt appeared from the back of the clinic. He had a stethoscope draped around his neck and looked exhausted. "I'm sorry, sir. We're closed for the night. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

"I need to speak with Dr. Holt immediately. My friend is in urgent need of his services."

The man blinked, glanced around the empty room with a slightly confused frown, then back to Finch. "What's wrong with your friend?"

"He fell into a lake and hit his head for starters, and he's currently unconscious in the passenger seat of my car. Rita told me that I'd be able to find Dr. Holt here. Was she mistaken?"

"Unfortunately, she was not." Finch looked up, recognizing the voice of the man in question. Michael Holt nodded to him as he entered the waiting area, looking almost as tired as his colleague. "It's good to see you again, Mr. Tern. Right on time as usual."

"I thought it best under the circumstances."

"Agreed." Holt gave Finch a questioning look, gesturing toward the clinic entrance. Receiving an affirmative nod in return, he kept walking and called over his shoulder, "Let's see what we've got, Dr. Zeke."

Zeke's curiosity had been piqued and he followed the other man out the door. Finch started to go after them when a woman with thick red hair burst through the waiting room door pushing a gurney. "Wait here, please," she said, offering him a quick smile before following in the path of the others.

Startled by the sudden fast pace, Finch did as requested without question. In his head, the questions were many though. Chief among them was what, exactly, had happened to Reese? From John's freezing, soaking-wet state and the rather impressive bump at his hairline, Finch had deduced the information he'd given to Rita and subsequently Zeke. Beyond that, he didn't have a clue.

He was still pondering it a short time later when a commotion at the door signaled the doctors' return, and as far as Finch could tell they weren't speaking English as they quickly pushed the gurney carrying a pale John Reese toward the back of the clinic. He caught a few words-hypothermia, lacerations, blood loss-as he followed the group, but mostly it was medical gibberish. Slipping through the door labeled 'trauma room' after them, Finch moved to stand against a wall, concerned for Reese but not wanting to get in the way.

"Core temp 92.1, pulse 38."

"This man's a popsicle."

"I'll get more blankets."

"I'll dig the IV warmer out of storage."

Finch observed silently in the background as Zeke and the redheaded woman left the room in search of the supplies. Holt grabbed a pair of scissors off a nearby cart and began to cut away Reese's soaked clothing, covering his shaking body with a dry sheet and blanket. The neurosurgeon then returned to his area of expertise and carefully palpated the contusion still oozing blood on Reese's forehead before examining the rest of his scalp for injury. Apparently finding none, he slid open his patient's left eyelid to check his pupil response. That was about the time that Reese came to. He woke up swinging and made an uncoordinated grab for Holt's arm but only managed to bat it out of the way, sending the doctor's penlight sailing across the room.

"Whoa!" Michael took a reflexive step back, holding up his hands.

"Mr. Reese!" Finch approached cautiously, knowing how combative John could be. By the time he reached his friend's side, Reese was looking around with wild eyes and struggling to get up. Weak as he was, Finch and Holt didn't have much trouble pushing him back down again, but that didn't mean he would stay down. He was obviously confused, and kept fighting them until his remaining strength gave out. Even then, limp and panting, his eyes continued to scan the room warily.

"He's going to hyperventilate or give himself a heart attack at this rate," Holt commented worriedly.

Finch tried again, stepping directly into Reese's line of sight, close enough to block anything else he may have been looking at. "John? It's Harold. Look at me. You've been injured, and you need to let Dr. Holt help you. He's a friend, all right?" At the very least, Finch figured he'd bought the privilege to refer to the doctor as such, given his generous donations to Holt Neuro over the years.

Several seconds ticked by before Reese's eyes finally focused blearily on Finch and he visibly relaxed. Finch thought that John looked halfway-lucid for about five seconds, but then his eyes slipped closed again.

"Is your friend always so...punchy, Mr. Tern?" Holt asked.

"It's an unfortunate side effect in his line of work, yes. It's probably for the best if you don't startle him."

"You don't say."

"How's he doing, Doctor?"

"Well, he's definitely concussed, but the confusion is likely due in part to the hypothermia. We'll reassess once he's warmer to make sure. Either way, you've got one tough friend there, Harold. Ex-military?"

"Uh, yes, he served at one time."

Much to Finch's relief, the other two doctors returned then, distracting Holt from the topic of John's background. The neurosurgeon briefly recounted to them Reese's short return to consciousness and cautioned them as to the nature of his work history before the conversation devolved entirely back to medical-speak.

They took another set of vitals on Reese and didn't approve of the results, if the quickening of their pace was any indication. Zeke hung two bags of clear fluids, encasing them in some sort of heating apparatus before inserting the lines, one into each of John's arms. Kate, as Finch had heard one of them refer to her, unfolded several blankets and laid them over the trunk of Reese's body, placing another around his head and neck, mindful of the laceration that Dr. Holt was preparing to clean. Satisfied with her cocooning job, she gently picked up Reese's right hand, examining it carefully.

Finch hadn't noticed before, but at least two of John's fingers were bent in a way that fingers were not supposed to bend and fully half of his hand was black and blue. He suppressed a wince, again wondering what sort of situation Reese had walked into. By the time Finch had arrived at Preston Park, the party was already over. Flashing lights from an ambulance had helped to point him in the right direction, and once he'd found John staggering through the woods, a bit too literally on the last leg of his endurance, getting help had quickly trumped getting answers. It didn't look like he'd be getting those answers anytime soon either, since Reese didn't seem particularly inclined to wake.

"Mr. Tern?"

"Yes?" Finch pulled himself from his thoughts and found Zeke standing in front of him.

"Mr. Reese's vitals are improving, but it's probably going to be awhile before he's fully coherent," Zeke said, as though he'd been reading Finch's mind a moment ago.

"Is that normal?"

"With what he's been through tonight, yes," Holt answered. "We'll be waking him periodically due to the concussion, but his body's exhausted from the cold and his other injuries. He'll sleep for awhile."

"Once he's had a chance to warm up a little we'll take care of his hand and the lacerations on his back and shoulder," Kate added, "If you'd like some coffee in the meantime, Zeke can show you the way to the break room."

"I should probably finish up with Greg anyway," Zeke agreed, gesturing for Finch to follow him. About ten feet down the hallway, he pushed open a door. "Welcome to the five-star employee lounge," he said with a wry smirk. "Feel free to put on a new pot of coffee if you want. As a doctor I have to advise you against drinking what's already there."

A clap on the shoulder from Zeke, and Finch was left standing alone in the cramped room, thinking that 'cramped' was hardly a sufficient term. Aside from a sink and some cabinets, the space was filled to capacity by a table, two chairs, a coffee pot, and a microwave. Finch had seen larger closets-not that he was complaining. The facility was low-budget, but the doctors were competent, if a bit quirky.

He searched the cabinets until he located the coffee. As a rule, Finch much preferred tea, but preferences were in short supply tonight, so he made an exception. By the time Zeke returned half an hour later, Finch had poured himself his third cup of the bitter liquid and was in the process of folding himself stiffly into the least-uncomfortable chair the room had to offer.

"Sorry about the furniture," Zeke apologized, noticing his discomfort. "We seldom have enough time to spare around here to even think about sitting down, and today was worse than most. Guess it only figures that it'd turn into an all-nighter."

"Does that happen often?"

Zeke poured himself a coffee and then turned back toward Finch, leaning against the counter. "Nah, the poor guy down the hall got mugged. Borderline concussion, broken nose, the whole nine yards. To top it off, he said his girlfriend kicked him out this morning. He had nowhere to go and needed to be under observation anyway, so I just told him he could crash here for the night. I was busy treating him when Dr. Holt got word you were bringing us a patient," Zeke said, his expression growing curious. "How'd you do it, by the way?"

"I'm afraid I don't understand," Finch shook his head.

"Holt's not too keen on walk-ins. He even prefers if emergencies are scheduled ahead of time, yet according to Kate he hung up the phone with his assistant and immediately started ordering her around as if he owned the place, making sure we were ready for you." At Finch's frown, Zeke held up his hands and smiled. "Hey, no offense. We're plenty used to emergencies around here, I've just never seen him jump that way before. If there's a secret to replicating the process, I'd pay good money for it...or maybe good money _is_ your secret."

Finch smiled and sipped his coffee. A short time later, Zeke excused himself to check on Reese and Finch was left alone in the break room for the second time that evening. He was considering going to look in on Reese himself, but couldn't quite shake the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. Certain things Zeke had said about his other patient bothered Finch. Namely, the timing of his arrival, his relationship problems, and the nature of his injuries. There were likely a thousand men named Greg in the city, and the Greg that was a known associate of their person of interest wasn't even high on their suspect list. According to Reese, he was more of a casual observer, comparatively speaking, within the group's convoluted relationship structure. That didn't mean he wasn't involved, though. John would say Finch was paranoid, and Finch would happily agree. Right after he confirmed the mystery patient's identity.

Dropping his coffee cup in the trash, he quietly opened the door and limped down the hallway toward the only exam room with a medical chart in the basket outside. The door to the room stood slightly ajar, and Finch made sure to stay out of sight as he snatched the folder. He had never quite bought into the over-dramatized scenes in mystery and suspense films where the hero discovers too late the fatal flaw in their investigative process, to the accompaniment of heavy, staccato doom music. Never until that moment, when the name on the chart read Gregory Shaw and Finch's own heart started pounding out the doom music, the name seeming to double in font size with every beat.

He replaced the chart in the wall pocket and turned back the way he'd come, slipping around the corner and into the trauma room. The scene that greeted him was much calmer than he felt. A heart monitor beeped slow and steady as Reese slept, and Holt was hanging another bag of fluids. "Where's Zeke?" Finch asked tensely, immediately noting the man's absence.

"Looking something up on the computer in my office," Kate said. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Is everything all right?"

Finch let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "No ghosts, I assure you."

"Good, we don't joke about that kind of thing around here," commented Holt seriously. Kate gave him an odd look.

"We still may have a problem though," Finch went on. "Your other patient, Gregory, is very likely the cause of Mr. Reese's present condition."

"I wouldn't have pegged your friend as the mugger type," Zeke said with raised eyebrows, coming in on the tail-end of their conversation.

"He's not," Finch said flatly.

The young doctor inclined his head pensively, "So, what, he got into it with Greg over the girl or something?"

"Not hardly. Mr. Reese was protecting a client of ours, from Gregory it looks like."

"Are you saying Mr. Shaw is dangerous?" Kate asked.

"You're d-damned r-right he is."

"John?"

"Harold?" Reese's eyelids fluttered open and he looked around groggily. "Gregory's here?"

Even half-asleep and more than half-frozen Reese caught on quick. Finch sighed. "By the worst sort of coincidence, yes."

John's expression darkened. "Where's my gun?" He was sitting up before anyone could stop him, and somehow managed to stay that way, even as what little color he'd had drained from his face and vertigo struck him full-on, making him sway. He might have said more, but was fighting a losing battle - vertigo's cousin nausea wasn't kind and he ended up doubled over the basin that Kate shoved in front of him at the last second.

Michael winced and stepped to John's other side, taking hold of his arm in a light but firm grip. The man was trembling from exhaustion and didn't need a worse head injury from crashing to the floor, which was what Michael fully expected to happen the instant he finished. Instead, Reese's body just sagged a little more in his grasp and Holt tightened his grip, continuing to support him while Kate set aside the basin. She took the damp cloth Zeke handed her and gently wiped away the thin sheen of perspiration that had formed on Reese's face and neck before placing her hand on his shoulder. "John, we're going to help you lie back," she said.

Reese shook his head slowly. "I w-won't let Gregory g-get away."

"Oh, he's not going anywhere, believe me" Holt said. "Zeke has him sleeping off your earlier encounter with some good painkillers, which is what you need to be doing."

"Listen to the doctor, Mr. Reese," Finch piped in. "I'm holding for Detective Fusco as we speak."

"Let me talk to him." At Finch's glare, Reese compromised, "Just for a minute?"

"Since when are the two of you so chatty?" sniped Finch, but stepped closer and activated the speakerphone, holding the device for Reese.

Generic elevator music echoed slightly in the room for a moment, before clicking and scratching as someone picked up the line. "Hello Lionel," Reese greeted before the other party could say anything.

"Hey, what gives? I've been trying to reach you for hours."

"Yeah, I've b-been a little busy ch-chasing a suspect."

"Well you sound horrible."

"Gee thanks," Reese deadpanned.

"So listen, that girl you had me following, Clara Stevenson? About two hours ago she received a phone call that seemed to really upset her and rushed over to St. Luke's hospital."

"What for?"

"I know you said to keep my distance, not to let her see me, and I did-right up until she pulled a gun on an ambulance crew and tried to shoot the guy they were unloading. Luckily she's a horrible shot and lost her nerve after firing the first round. Carter's got her here at the precinct, but she's not talking."

"Let m-me guess, the guy she w-went after was Ralph H-Higgins."

"Why do I always get the feeling you're two steps ahead? Wanna tell me what her beef with the guy is?"

"I don't know, but she's th-the second person to t-try to kill him t-tonight."

"Wait a minute, you're saying she's telling the truth about not being the one who gave him the ice bath? Never mind, of course you are, you were there from the sound of things."

"Yeah," Reese mumbled, resting his head tiredly against the heel of his hand as another wave of vertigo washed over him. "I was there."

"Hey, you all right?" Fusco asked. "Reese?"

Finch toggled his phone off of speaker and took a couple of steps away. John had grown suddenly compliant and allowed Kate and Michael to ease him back against the bed. They were asking him something, but Reese's answer was too quiet for Finch to make out so he returned to the conversation he could hear. "Sorry about that, Detective. Mr. Reese finally agreed with his doctor that he needed to get some rest. Now, the reason I called. We have a small problem here..."

* * *

Finch soon revised his opinion of the size of their problem.

After speaking with Fusco, he'd begun to have hopes that the night would end on a relatively peaceful note. The doctors had finally declared Reese stable and warm enough to tolerate some pain medication and a local, and had positioned him on his side to begin treating his other injuries. John had been alternately dozing and blinking drowsily at the wall ever since, while Holt cleaned and stitched up the long gash across his shoulder blade and Kate splinted his broken fingers. With relative calm settling in, Zeke had retrieved the entire pot of coffee and a small stack of styrofoam cups from the break room in an attempt to stay awake and had barely finished pouring when a loud thud from the hallway heralded the end of the tenuous peace.

The thud was followed by a very distinctive creak of a door hinge. "Zeke, what's Mr. Shaw doing in the supply closet?" Holt asked warily.

Zeke didn't answer, but glanced at Michael as he stepped to the door and opened it a crack to peer out. It was then that they all heard a crash, the shrill screeching of metal, and frustrated yelling, before heavy booted footsteps came clunking down the hallway. The young doctor quietly closed the door, turning back to the group. "Uh, I'd say that's a definite yes for whether Greg's dangerous. He's got a scalpel in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other."

"Did he see you?" Finch asked.

Zeke shrugged. "Hard to say with the way he kept glancing around."

"We should barricade the door to be safe."

They all turned at the soft sound of Reese's voice. Apparently the commotion had woken him, and he looked like he was trying to find the strength to sit up. He'd barely moved an inch when Kate put a restraining hand on his shoulder and arched an eyebrow at him. "Seriously, John, you're as bad as Dr. Holt. Just stay put. The cart there, will that work to block the door?" she asked him.

Reese considered it for a moment before shaking his head slightly. "Not by itself. It's too light." He surveyed the room as well as he could without moving. "Use that," he said finally, raising a lethargic arm to indicate the IV pole above him, while at the same time closing his eyes. His brief search had set the room spinning again. "Hook the top under the doorknob, and the other end behind one of the front wheels."

Kate nodded. "I see what you're saying." She rolled the cart in front of the door and stacked boxes of supplies on a nearby counter, making room for the pole, which Michael handed her after moving Reese's IVs to a makeshift hook on one of the monitor stands. She slid the pole in at an angle as instructed and jiggled the cart, testing her work. As an afterthought, she added a couple of heavier boxes to the bottom of the cart and grabbed some latex gloves, wedging one between each wheel and the cart, effectively jamming them. "I think that'll do it," she said, straightening.

"One more thing," Reese said. "Kill the lights."

"What for?" Holt asked curiously, but flicked the switch on the wall, plunging the room into darkness.

"The hallway's not well lit. He'll be able to see the light under the door," Finch said.

Outside, they could hear Gregory getting nearer and occasionally staggering against the wall and muttering to himself. He'd made one circuit of the clinic already and apparently was now retracing his steps in reverse. Finch, Reese, and the three doctors lapsed into tense silence as Gregory paused near the door, but he didn't seem particularly interested in the trauma room. Then Finch's phone rang.

Harold jumped, hissing at the tendrils of pain that shot up and down his spine as a result. The evening's activities had made his back terribly stiff and as such, he felt he was well within his rights when he snatched the offensive device from his jacket and quietly snapped, "What do you want?" at the person on the other end of the line.

"I can come back later if this is a bad time, but the tiger may have escaped his cage by then."

"What do you mean, Detective?" Finch asked, his voice calmer if no less annoyed.

"I'm at the front door of the clinic and your suspect just tore through the waiting room and knocked the blinds off one of the windows. He was yelling at something or someone that wasn't there and then ran back the way he'd come." Fusco paused, hearing a bang on the other end of the line. "What the hell was that?"

"Gregory attempting to break down the door. He seems to have realized he's not the only one here, and he's armed, so I suggest you come in the back way, Detective." Finch took an instinctive step away from the door as the pounding came again. "Hurry, if you please." He didn't acknowledge Fusco's response and hung up, more worried about the feral growl that joined the cacophony of rage raining down on the door.

"I know you're in there, dammit! Come out here and face me like a man! If that's even possible...you always were a sniveling little bastard. What she saw in you, I'll never know!"

"What in the world did you give him, Zeke?" Michael asked with a frown when Greg kept on beating on the door, then the wall, shouting a continuous stream of expletives as he went.

Zeke shrugged in confusion, "An extra Tylenol and an ice pack. I was worried about a possible concussion and he'd obviously had more than a little to drink so I didn't want to risk anything stronger."

"Well, you're either right about the concussion or he's crazy," Michael said, then added wryly, "or he could be fighting a ghost."

Another muffled voice joined the din outside, and Gregory stopped pounding on the door momentarily. His footsteps retreated a short distance down the hallway, where he began yelling again, "Hey, stay back, freak! If you're here to defend her honor I can save you the trouble. She never had any, but that's still more than the guy in there!"

"Oh, I'm relatively certain he's crazy," Reese commented to Finch.

As if to punctuate the point, a body slammed into the door. "Ow! I said get back! Oof!" Something metal clattered to the floor. "That's it! You wanted a fight, you've got one, man!" Gregory pounded his fist on the trauma room door a couple more times, "and then you and I are gonna have a real talk about all your girlfriends, Ralphie," he sneered. "You'll wish you'd never gotten me mixed up in your little-"

Gregory's voice cut off mid-rant, at the same moment as the first of two successive thwacks, both of a distinctly different timbre than any of the menagerie of noises they'd been treated to thus far. More muffled cursing sounded, and at length there was another knock at the door. This one was comparatively polite, though, and came from about a foot off the floor.

"Who's there?" Finch called out warily.

"Santa Claus! Who do you think?" Fusco grouched. "Open up, I could use a hand."

Not hearing anything particularly suspicious outside, Finch removed the barricade and cautiously peered out the door. He opened his mouth to ask the detective how he could be of assistance, but closed it again, unprepared for the sight before him. Fusco was literally sitting on Gregory, who was lying on the floor, dazed, a hardback copy of the Physicians' Desk Reference near his head. A pair of scissors, a mop, a scalpel, and a wastebasket were also strewn about the hallway.

"What's going on out there?"

Recognizing Reese's voice, Fusco shifted, trying to see past Finch. "I had to teach the definition of concussion to your suspect."

"I'm pretty sure he was already aware of its meaning," Zeke said, frowning at the detective over Finch's shoulder.

Fusco shrugged. "Sorry, Doc. It was either that or shoot him."

On the floor, Gregory groaned and tried to roll onto his back. Fusco shoved him back down. "Hey, idiot, shooting's still an option." When it seemed Gregory was going to stay down, Fusco shifted position and proceeded to handcuff him. "Is there somewhere you want him while I call a car to pick him up?" he asked Zeke.

Zeke sighed, stepping around Finch and into the hallway. "Help me get him back to the exam room. I'd better check if he's got any further damage before you send him on his way."

"You got it," said Fusco, pulling Gregory to his feet with Zeke's help and shuffling him off down the hall. He returned a few minutes later with a bewildered frown on his face and addressed the two remaining doctors, "Could you excuse us for a few minutes? I need to ask them some questions."

Kate glanced at Michael and nodded. "Sure, but try not to be too long. John really should get some rest."

"No problem." The detective waited until the door closed behind them before turning on Reese and Finch. "Would one of you please start at the beginning and tell me what's going on?"

"I will if you'll stop yelling," Reese said with a wince.

Fusco hadn't thought he'd been talking any louder than normal, but from the look of it, someone had taught Reese the definition of a concussion tonight too. "Sorry," he said more quietly. "So I kinda figured Ms. Stevenson was the one you were after, what with the incident at the hospital. How does this guy fit into the picture?"

"Wait, what incident at the hospital?" Reese looked confused.

Fusco rolled his eyes. "Oh this is gonna be fun. Your brain's as scrambled as the idiot down the hall. On the phone earlier, I told you Clara Stevenson tried to shoot Ralph Higgins when he was brought to St. Luke's."

"What? That doesn't make any sense. Gregory's the one who was after Ralph."

"Not how it looked to me. What did Ralph do to become so well-liked, anyway?"

"He broke up with his girlfriend and threatened to leave their little play group."

"So Clara's the jilted ex. That gives her motive to shoot him, maybe, but what about Gregory?"

"Clara's not Ralph's ex," Reese corrected. "Tiffany was."

Fusco shook his head. "You lost me, what does Clara have to do with any of this then?"

"Finding that out was supposed to be your job, Lionel."

Before the detective could answer, his phone rang. "It's Carter," he said, looking at the caller ID.

"Maybe she got some information out of Ms. Stevenson," Finch said.

The detective shrugged and answered the call. "Fusco. Uh huh. Wait...whose murder did she witness? No, they said Gregory is the bad guy...um, 'they' as in an anonymous tip I got. Yeah." Fusco listened for a few moments longer. "I'm waiting for a car to bring him in now. Yeah, okay, we'll sort it out then. Thanks, Carter."

"What did she say?" asked Finch.

"That Clara Stevenson witnessed the murder of Joe Michaels. Carter's all worked up over it, and with good reason. Clara had a solid alibi for the night Mr. Michaels was killed."

"Dave," Reese said, his glassy eyes growing wide in realization. He shook his head slowly. "I should have noticed sooner."

"Noticed what, Mr. Reese?"

"Ralph isn't the victim here, Finch. We just thought so because it seemed like everyone was after him. What if they had a good reason?"

"As in Ralph murdering Joe."

"Hang on, we cleared Higgins as a suspect too," Fusco objected.

"This group was thicker than thieves, Lionel. A dysfunctional family. When that family was threatened, things got out of control, but they still tried to protect one another. Some were just more willing than others to lie in order to do so."

Fusco sighed. "All right, I'll call Carter and have her send some uniforms over to the hospital to arrest Higgins."

"No."

"No? You just said he murdered a guy."

"You have to find Dave first. I think he's in danger."

"In danger from who? Ralph's not going anywhere, he's in worse shape than you."

"Well then there's no need to tip him off just yet, is there? Dave was running scared the night I tried to question him, and he disappeared entirely less than two days later. I'd wager that Ralph's involved, so send some men to the hospital for security if you want, but they don't talk to Ralph until we've got Dave."

The detective sighed again. "Carter's gonna have my ass for not saying something. I don't suppose you've got any idea where Dave might be?"

"Actually, I just might," Finch said slowly, flipping his phone around to to show them a grid with a blinking orange dot in the lower righthand corner.

"Should that mean something to me?" asked Fusco.

"A few hours ago, I discovered another cell phone belonging to Ralph. He'd covered his tracks by registering it in his father's name. It's the phone he's been using to communicate with Jenna."

"Who's Jenna?"

"Ralph's secret girlfriend outside of the group," Reese answered.

"Good grief." Fusco motioned for Finch to continue.

"The last call he made to her was earlier this evening, just before he went fishing in the park. It originated from the vicinity of Sag Harbor, where the brothers own a vacation home. Dave's phone is still off the grid, but there's no indication any of the others knew about the place, not even Clara."

"Come to think of it, Greg did say something about Dave being threatened, and that he'd called Clara when he couldn't get in touch with him today. From what I could gather, she hadn't seen Dave either, and Greg seemed genuinely worried when he wasn't swearing revenge on Ralph or mumbling incoherently."

"That would make sense. Dave was closer to Gregory than he was to his own brother," said Finch.

"Well we have a location. What are we waiting for?" Reese asked. To his credit, he actually managed to sit up this time, but was far too unsteady and pale for the effort to be convincing.

Finch took a step closer to him, just in case, while Fusco snorted and said, "_I'm_ waiting for a car to bring in Mr. Shaw. It shouldn't be more than ten minutes, but you'll be waiting a lot longer than that if you really think you're going to stand up."

"The detective can handle checking on Dave, Mr. Reese," Finch agreed.

No matter how much Reese wanted to see this through, he had to admit that Finch had a point. Fusco could find Dave's residence just fine without his assistance, and with Gregory in custody and Ralph out of commission, he and Finch had more or less accomplished their task. That, and no matter how still he kept his head, the room would just not stop spinning. "Keep me posted, Lionel."

"Will do," Fusco said, heading for the door.

* * *

"Wake up, Mr. Reese. We're here."

The words filtered through John's brain slowly, and with an effort he obeyed the voice, squinting in the weak January sunlight. He fumbled in his jacket, searching for his sunglasses.

"You're wearing them, Mr. Reese." There was mild amusement in Finch's voice, but the man looked just about as tired as John still felt.

"Right." Reese opened the car door and glanced up at the familiar silhouette of the library. "We have another number already?" he asked, surprised.

"No, but I thought you might be more inclined to actually get some sleep here than left to your own devices," Finch replied, coming around to the passenger side and offering a hand to Reese. Another few hours of observation following Fusco's departure from the clinic and a CT scan at Holt Neuro saw John a little steadier on his feet, with a confirmed moderate concussion but no resulting complications. Still, Finch stayed close until he had Reese safely settled in a chair upstairs.

Despite the fact that John had been resting for the better part of the night, Finch knew that he hadn't gotten much in the way of real sleep in the past two days and so was unsurprised to find him dozing when he returned a short time later with two mugs of tea. He placed the hot drinks on the table and lowered himself into the next chair, switching on his monitors. There, he focused his attention on the window to the far right, where he'd cloned the laptop Reese had given him. He had yet to remove the virus, but at least this way he didn't have to listen to it beep incessantly.

His phone was different story. Reese woke with a start at the shrill ringer, his head snapping up. The grimace of pain that crossed his features wasn't lost on Finch, and Harold gave the other man an apologetic look as he answered the call. When he hung up a few minutes later, Reese was sipping his tea and staring vacantly across the room. "Are you sure they didn't give you more pain meds at the hospital?"

Reese blinked, then frowned. In all honesty, he'd thought there was a good possibility he'd imagined going in for the CT scan. "No, I'm not. What did Lionel want?"

"He was just checking in with an update. Ralph Higgins is officially under arrest for the kidnapping of his brother Dave and the murder of Joe Michaels, and Gregory was booked for attempted murder, though he'll likely plead down to assault in exchange for testifying against Ralph. Under the circumstances, the charges against Ms. Stevenson will probably be dropped as well. No one was hurt when she fired the gun, and she'd just been told that her boyfriend had likely been kidnapped by his own brother. She was understandably agitated."

"What about Dave?"

"The doctors expect him to recover. As you know, he was nearing a diabetic coma when Detective Fusco found him locked up in the cabin's basement, but he regained consciousness earlier this afternoon." When Reese didn't respond beyond a slight nod, Finch turned back to his work.

"There are two things that still don't make sense in all of this," Reese commented several minutes later.

"And what are those?" Finch asked distractedly.

"Well, if Joe hadn't tried to talk Ralph out of leaving the group for Jenna, he'd still be alive. Gregory wouldn't have walked in on the aftermath of their deadly argument and been sworn to secrecy. Dave wouldn't have learned the truth from Clara and been kidnapped by Ralph for threatening to tell all, and Gregory wouldn't have been pushed to retaliate to protect his best friend.

"What doesn't add up is Clara. What was she doing at Joe's place the night of his murder, anyway?" Reese pulled his eyes away from his cup of tea and looked at Finch, who didn't seem to be paying any attention to what he'd been saying. "Harold?"

"It appears you weren't the only one to wonder that, Mr. Reese. This video was saved on Dave's laptop, along with some other documents sent to him by a private investigator. It's from a few days prior to Joe's death." Finch punched another key, bringing up a video of Clara and Joe, and it wasn't G-rated.

Reese's eyebrows went up. "That...certainly does explain it..."

"I'd say so." The sight before them was so unexpected that neither could look away. By all appearances, Dave and Clara had been the closest thing the group had to an exclusive couple. That one of them had been unfaithful was about the most scandalous news their party could produce. Aside from Ralph's forbidden tryst with the outsider, Jenna, of course-the catalyst that had sparked all of this.

The video played on, and Reese and Finch's heads tilted to the side in unison, but Reese kept right on going and would have fallen over if Finch hadn't grabbed his arm. As though suddenly realizing the impropriety of the situation, Harold clicked out of the video and gently tugged John upright again. "Thanks," Reese said softly.

"You should sleep. Your couch is already made up."

Reese yawned in agreement and slowly stood to make his way down the hall, with Finch hovering at his elbow. As they walked, Finch's curiosity got the better of him, "What was the other thing, Mr. Reese? You said there were two things that didn't make sense about this."

"Why a weathervane, Finch? Surely there are less-cumbersome ways to conceal a GPS chip. Watches, cufflinks, subcutaneous trackers..."

"Indeed, Mr. Reese. I'm sure you'll figure it out when you're feeling better."

"Figure what out?" John asked, genuinely confused as he sank into the sofa.

"Good night, Mr. Reese." Finch paused at the doorway and turned off the light, silently sliding a slim, wrapped box onto the table beneath the lamp as he did so. When Reese had badgered him into participating in this little gift exchange, he hadn't been able to resist having a bit of fun at the other man's expense-and the extra GPS tracker _had_ come in handy-but he truly hoped that John would enjoy his real gift: a pristine, original translation copy of _The Art of War_. After what he'd gone through last night, what he risked on a day-to-day basis, it hardly seemed adequate. Finch was just glad that John was here, safe and on the mend.

* * *

THE END


End file.
